


I O U

by theleaveswant



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Blackmail, Crack, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nipple Play, Obedience, Pre-Canon, Recovery, Serious Injuries, Service, Silly, Slavery, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An incident of friendly fire puts Coulson in Clint's debt--a privilege that Clint abuses mercilessly. (Written before seeing the The Avengers--darned staggered release dates--so no deliberate spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I O U

Clint wakes up groggy in a hospital bed with Coulson hovering over him.

“Hey,” Coulson says. “How're you feeling?”

“Alive,” Clint croaks, “I guess.” He reaches up with his right hand to pick at the bandage poking out from the edge of his polka-dotted hospital gown near his left shoulder but Coulson gently lifts his hand away. 

“Easy there, buddy. Give it time.”

Clint frowns. “You're bein' weird,” he slurs, because Coulson is, with the soothing tone and calling him 'buddy' like he's talking to a frustrated two-year-old. Coulson's never called him 'buddy' before—has never, to Clint's knowledge, called _anyone_ 'buddy' before, certainly not anyone at SHIELD—and Clint's not sure whether he likes it.

Coulson, disconcertingly, blushes at that, and lowers his eyes to Clint's chest.

“Oh, hey,” Clint says, frowning and fumbling for the button that'll tilt him up into a sitting position. “It's okay. You don't have to feel guilty, sir. You're not the one who shot me.”

Coulson's lips compress into a thin white line and he swallows, steadfastly avoiding Clint's eyes. 

Clint's eyes narrow as the fog in his brain continues to burn off and the events surrounding his injury begin to drift back into focus. “Wait a minute . . .” he mutters, then sits bolt upright in bed. “Holy shit, Coulson, did you shoot me?”

“It was an accident,” Coulson says, raising his head but keeping his gaze perpendicular to Clint's own. “You ran into my line of fire."

“I can't believe you fucking shot me!”

“Would you keep your voice down?” Coulson says, finally turning to face him.

“You son of a bitch, you're supposed to keep me safe out there!” Clint lowers his volume but retains his indignation. He thinks. He's still feeling a little woozy.

“And you're supposed to not run in front of bullets,” Coulson glowers, “no matter who's firing them.”

Clint subsides into angry muttering and starts groping at his bedclothes, managing to throw off the blanket tucked around his waist before he starts trying to lower the bed-rail on his injured side, the side not blocked by unhappy Coulson. “Where'd these vultures put my pants?” he asks.

“Oh, no.” Coulson stands up and leans across Clint's body, pulling his hands away from the railing. “You've barely come out of surgery; I'm not letting you go crashing down the hallway on a drugged-up rampage, knocking people over and ripping out your stitches. You're going to stay right here in bed and let the staff take care of you.”

“I'll let _you_ take care of me,” Clint says sulkily, allowing Coulson to force his arms back down at his side, taking care not to disturb Clint's IV line too drastically. “But only because you owe me for putting a bullet through my body.”

“You put the bullet through your own body, arguably, by putting your body where it wasn't supposed to be.”

Clint is still too fuzzy-headed for complicated reasoning or people not agreeing with him, so instead of arguing he points at his dully aching wound and pouts. “Owwwwww,” he whines.

Coulson's eyes tighten into a wince and he sighs. “Fine. How can I help you to feel comfortable?”

“You can get me a purple popsicle,” Clint says, settling back down into his pillows.

Coulson steps back from the bed, hesitantly, watching to ensure that Clint's not about to make another break for freedom. “And if they don't have purple popsicles?”

Clint rolls his head to look at him. “You can get me,” he repeats, carefully sounding out each word, “a purple popsicle.”

It takes most of a month for Coulson to run out of patience with this game—spending as much time as he can at the infirmary, waiting on Clint's beck and call—and Clint enjoys every minute of it, seizing on every sign of irritation with a corrective display of agony or a reminder of how many weeks of rehab Clint has ahead of him before he can be cleared for active duty. Finally, one day, after Coulson grits his teeth through taking Clint's lunch order (“Italian wedding soup with a cheese bun, and Oreo ice cream. Oh, and perogies. And—”), he asks Clint if he can get him anything else.

Clint hums as he thinks about this. “You know, some porn would be nice.”

“Porn?”

“The kind where everybody looks like they're having fun.”

Coulson stares at him. “Barton, I am not bringing you porn.”

Clint takes a deep breath in anticipation of a gusty, long-suffering sigh, but Coulson is already rolling his eyes and reaching under his jacket for his sidearm.

“Are you allowed to have that in here?” Clint asks, frowning at the weapon as Coulson compulsively checks it, then holds it out grip-first towards Clint.

“Here,” Coulson says. 

“What?”

“Shoot me. If it'll get me off the hook for hurting you, you can shoot me too.”

Clint's eyes widen in alarm. “You can't be fucking serious.”

“If this is what it takes.”

“Coulson, I'm not going to shoot you. Put the gun away.”

Coulson deflates, his shoulders slumping as he tucks the gun back out of sight under his suit. “Good,” he says, “Good. So if that's the end of my indentured servitude—” He starts to leave but Clint, indignant at the ridiculous audacity of his bluff, grunts and turns to sit upright in bed, swinging his legs over the side.

He grabs Coulson's left nipple through his shirt and pulls, twisting it around as far as it'll go while Coulson yelps and leans into the tug in an effort to reduce the strain on his skin. 

“Nice try, buddy.” He releases Coulson's nipple, grinning as Coulson claps a hand to his abused chest and staggers back, gaping. “But we're not even close to even.”


End file.
